


don't worry till we hit the lights

by carnation



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Breast Play, F/F, Groping, Talkative Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnation/pseuds/carnation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Practising with Yumacchi is fine for the basics, you know, but he’s not a girl, and he’s definitely not a cute girl, and the single most essential element of any girly sleepover is at <i>least</i> two cute girls and at <i>most</i> one single bed – but you’ve had one before, Anri-chan, haven’t you? A sleepover? A girly one? Well, but a girl as cute as you <i>must</i> have done; it’s a law of nature, or at least of anime, and what’s the difference, anyway?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't worry till we hit the lights

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle, for the prompt/s: 'Anri Sonohara/Erika Karisawa, story, talk, breasts, affection, play, mouth, yuri'. I've been looking for an excuse to write Anri/Erika ever since the first time Erika had to be dragged away from hitting on her, so I jumped on these prompts immediately (thanks for the chance, OP!). 
> 
> Set in Durarara!!x2, just after the hit-and-run puts Kadota in the hospital.

Erika looks at her phone a moment longer than she needs to before she swipes down the lock screen, drops it onto the stack of hardbacked shoujo anthologies serving as a bedside table, and flops down at Anri’s side. “Not a single message, Anri-chan.” 

Anri’s own phone isn’t ringing either. It’s on her side of the narrow bed, on the windowsill she’s stretched out beneath, pilot light blinking in the gloom as it charges. The blinds of Erika’s room bump lazily against each other in the near-dead evening breeze. Strips of Ikebukuro light slot into place between them: ghostly, washed-out neons, shifting through the gloomy room like a technological mirage. Anri’s hands are folded on her stomach. She’s looking up at the ceiling. Her bare toes are cold. She should get under the covers, she knows she should, but she’s here now, and it seems the most impossible task in the world to move from here. 

Beside her, Erika props herself up one elbow. “Dotachin would definitely approve of a girly sleepover,” she says. “Much better than killing or maiming or torturing, he’d say, which is fine since he’s Dotachin so he can have whatever opinions he likes and I’ll defend them, and he doesn’t need to know about the rest of it, and this way at least _one_ of us is doing something so innocent that he wouldn’t start yelling if he knew about it – and you know what I’m thinking, Anri-chan?” 

“Um,” says Anri, and blinks a few times in mild bewilderment, which probably isn’t the response Erika’s after. She peers up at her and tries again. “Um – what are you thinking, Karisawa-san?” 

“I’m thinking that a girly sleepover is the best way to invoke _all_ sorts of delicious tropes about innocence, so in a way this is actually the opposite of doing anything that’d give Dotachin something to worry about, isn’t it? And with _you_ for an accomplice, Anri-chan! Of all people!” Her eyes are alight, and she seems as delighted with Anri as with herself. The frothy black collar of her nightie is buttoned primly to her chin. “And there’s so much to homage in the field we could stay right here all week and not be done with it! And practising with Yumacchi is fine for the basics, you know, but he’s not a girl, and he’s definitely not a cute girl, and the single most essential element of any girly sleepover is at _least_ two cute girls and at _most_ one single bed – but you’ve had one before, Anri-chan, haven’t you? A sleepover? A girly one? Well, but a girl as cute as you _must_ have done; it’s a law of nature, or at least of anime, and what’s the difference, anyway? But tell me the truth, Anri-chan – have you?”

Words burst out of Erika at such wild speeds that Anri needs a moment to catch up. “I, um – have?” she ventures. Then, more firmly: “Had sleepovers, I mean. With Mika-san, um – you know Mika-san, don’t you? But not since—” _the slashing and the stalking and the surgery_ , “—not... for a while,” she finishes lamely. 

Erika’s peering down at her with interest. “Tell me more,” she orders. 

“Um,” says Anri. “More?”

“Anri-chan! Tell me _more_!” commands Erika, and begins to walk two fingers jauntily across the ridge of Anri’s collarbone. “I want the details, Anri-chan! Frilly nighties? Lacy panties? Hair in playful bouncing bunches? Don’t tell me, don’t tell me, you bounced on the beds and swatted each other with pillows and squealed every time they hit home – but _do_ tell me – did you? Is that it? A spot of rough and tumble? Girlish experimentation? I’ve seen it all, Anri-chan, you can’t shock me; I’d say there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but embarrassment is key to the appeal – and there you go! There you go! Oh, Anri-chan, _aren’t_ your cheeks pink!”

They feel more like blazing scarlet. With a tremendous effort, Anri manages to say, “It wasn’t – um. That sort of sleepover, Karisawa-san.” 

Erika’s fingers stop their slow march just above the dip of her clavicle. Her eyes narrow, and she leans in, and in those round dark eyes Anri sees something she recognises from her own mirror: a flick of the shark’s fin, a glimpse of the predator inside, there and gone again – and she’s herself again, breathless with the frenzy of her own imagination. “But what other sort of girly sleepover _is_ there, Anri-chan?”

“Well, we just – went to each other’s houses, and stayed up talking for a little bit. And then we went to sleep. Um, and – usually there was a sleeping bag. Mika-san’s was pink with, um – hearts, I think, and mine was blue. And that was it.”

“Anri-chan,” says Erika severely, “that is _not_ a girly sleepover. That’s not even a sleepover. That’s just two people taking a nap in the same room. Who’d tune in to watch that? Who’d shell out for merchandise of that? You’ve got a body _made_ for figurines, Anri-chan! Live up to your potential!”

“I don’t,” begins Anri, and falters. Erika’s fingers resume their walk across her collarbone. Anri looks uncertainly up at her. She’s not sure what she’s supposed to say, or what she’s supposed to do, and far down in the murkiest depths of her hesitation she can feel Saika lazily stirring to attention. “We just, um—”

Erika’s fingers take a detour. A sharp left at the clavicle, and down at a steady marching pace, and then she grabs Anri’s breast. “No point crying over spilled milk,” she announces, “or missed opportunities, since I’m a highly qualified expert in the field of squirming blushing first-time yuri encounters,” as Anri’s hands fly up from her stomach, clutch frantically at the air, and plummet back down to seize a death grip on the sheets beneath her, “and we can get started on making up for all that lost time immediately, Anri-chan, I know every beat we’ll need to hit for an authentic girly sleepover experience that’ll sell _just_ enough to be guaranteed for a sequel but never _quite_ enough that its niche appeal will end up ruined by mainstream licensing – oh, Anri-chan, what’s that? Did you say something?”

Even Anri’s not sure. Erika’s rubbing and squeezing with the careless vigour of a woman who’s mistaken Anri for her own personal stress ball, and Anri’s toes clench, her back squirms against the mattress of its own accord. 

“Well, even if you didn’t say something, you do _have_ to say something,” Erika tells her confidently, and wriggles closer still. “If you like it, you have to say that you like it, or whimper that you like it or squeak or mewl or whatever you prefer, just so long as you do enough of it to get the message across – or! _Or_ , Anri-chan,” struck by inspiration, “you could say that you _don’t_ like it, and then we can take this down the route of initial reluctance due to innocence or nerves or being _very_ sure you’re not _that_ way about girls, till eventually you’re overwhelmed by desire and end up admitting you like it after all, though of course me and the viewers knew it from the start – but whatever you prefer, Anri-chan, I’m the expert here, you do what you like and I’ll do the heavy lifting needed to make it marketable—”

Her breath is leaving hot fog on Anri’s glasses. Anri can hardly keep her eyes open for more than snatched moments, though: a glimpse of the ceiling, blurred by fog – a glimpse of Erika’s eyes, dark and alive, blurred by fog – Erika’s mouth, breathing hard against hers – Anri’s own voice has left her; she can hear where it’s gone, turned to whimpery panting. 

Erika pushes herself up – Anri knows from the dip of the mattress and the heat of her body, her eyes screwed closed – and sets about Anri’s other breast instead. She presses her palm flat against it, digs her fingers in, prods and pushes and attempts to roll it side to side and treats Anri generally as though she’s a particularly resilient chicken cutlet needing preparation for the evening’s dinner. 

Anri’s whimpering gives a hiccup, and catches, and starts to come out as giggling instead. Her hips twitch up of their own accord; she digs her grip into Erika’s shoulder, and says, “You—”

“Hmm?” says Erika encouragingly. “What’s that, Anri-chan? Out with it, tell me what you’re thinking; if you’ve got a dominant side that tends to suddenly break free in the middle of the action then this would be the perfect time to unleash it, turn the tables, flip those classic older-senpai-as-seme expectations – or if you’re getting the urge to make some delicate artistic metaphors about things like womanhood and arousal and the ocean and the moon and flowers and so on, this is your chance, I can prompt you if you like—”

“You’re,” says Anri, and squirms helplessly against the mattress some more, and manages nothing else but a breathless burst of laughter that snaps her hips up again. 

“And that’s another reliable approach,” says Erika, her tone approving. The mattress dips again – Anri shutters her eyes open just long enough for a flash of Erika’s dark hair, of shadowy neon striping the ceiling like electronic camouflage – and Erika’s weight settles over her, a knee planted between her thighs, an arm braced beside her head. “Phase two, Anri-chan!” she says, breath fogging over Anri’s glasses completely. 

She slides her hand up beneath Anri’s loose pyjama top. All of her stomach muscles contract at once; she bucks away from the touch and then into it, her body as out of control as though Saika’s driving it – but it’s Anri, all Anri. 

“Anri-chan! This – what is _this_? Come on,” chides Erika, “come on, Anri-chan, this isn’t sexy or cute, unless you’re playing up the sporty ingénue angle, and you don’t really have the body for it, unless it was volleyball, and even then you’d be better off if it was beach volleyball and you played it in a bikini for maximum jiggle potential—”

She’s plucking insistently at the elastic of the soft sports bra Anri wears to bed. Anri seizes in a great breath, and attempts to let it relax her; it doesn’t work, and she says helplessly, “That’s – okay, okay—”

It’s a two-person job. Her pyjama top goes, her bra goes; Erika unbuttons and unbuttons and unbuttons, and then yanks her own frothy black nightie over her head and tosses it gaily aside before diving back in to kiss Anri with such enthusiastic vigour that even the thought of keeping up with her is far beyond Anri’s capabilities. 

Maniacal energy seems to have filled her: one hand tangled in Anri’s hair, the other back to its restless kneading, she’s squirming herself against Anri as though she just can’t get comfortable. “You’re a natural for the genre,” she proclaims, pulling back for a bare moment, black eyes sparkling fever-bright, “you’re a pro, Anri-chan! That elusive golden ratio of sex appeal to inexperience, you’ve nailed it – _just_ the right amount of clumsiness – masterly work, Anri-chan, you coy little vixen, you saucy little nymph—”

Anri realises she’s looking at Erika’s breasts, round and small and swinging very low above her face; she blushes crimson and tries to avert her eyes, then realises immediately the uselessness of that, and blushes even more crimson still, and by sheer force of will alone manages to say, “My first – just then, I mean, that was—”

“Your first – kiss? Satisfactory grope? Experience with an older woman? _Any_ woman? Get specific, Anri-chan,” says Erika, her voice a suddenly uncannily sultry purr, and she ducks her head again to do something to Anri’s neck that turns her response into a half-swallowed yelp. Her heels skid desperately apart from each other, digging hard into the mattress. 

“All of them,” she says, barely, “everything you said, all of it—”

Erika’s tongue stops where it is. Then she looks up, and covers her mouth, and says in a theatrical whisper, “Is this all part of the scene, Anri-chan? Or do you mean it?”

“I mean it,” says Anri. 

Erika squints at her a moment longer. “Interesting,” she says at last. “An extra layer of authenticity! We can work with this, you just wait; it’ll be the tag line all over the BluRay release, the first pull quote from every teaser trailer... You know, Anri-chan—” abruptly conversational, “—you’ve got the most fresh-out-the-box 2D-perfect body of any 3D girl I’ve ever known,” and before Anri can work out if that’s a compliment or a solicitation or simply evidence of the transparent yet impenetrable membrane that exists between Erika and reality as Anri knows it, Erika drops her head back down and licks across her nipple with the same hard, hungry enthusiasm she’d turn to an especially stubborn scoop of ice cream. 

Heat was already burning between Anri’s legs, but now distinctly she feels the damp turn wet. Erika’s still graceless, the flat of her tongue pushing hard; her teeth scrape against the side of Anri’s breast, maybe accidental, maybe not, and Anri clutches desperately at her shoulders. It’s the only place for her to clutch, with Erika’s hair so neatly braided up against her head – there’s nothing there _to_ clutch, and even if there was it would be rude, she’s sure – her manners persisting doggedly against all odds, despite her hotly fogged thoughts – it would be _very_ rude for her to grab hold of Erika’s pretty braids without warning—

Erika shoves a hand down the front of Anri’s pyjama shorts, goes unerringly for what she wants, and of the two of them it’s Anri who’s startled when she comes. 

“And the starting pistol fires!” crows Erika. 

Anri’s breath has been gutted from her. Her toes have curled so hard that when rational thought starts returning to her it feels a whole lot like she’s sprained something down there, a cramp in the arch of her foot; though her toes aren’t cold anymore, at least. She tries to clamp her legs tight closed, the way she would if she was alone and thinking of – if she was alone: but Erika’s there, manically bright-eyed, beaming down at her. “Where _do_ you keep that great big sword of yours, Anri-chan? I’ve been wondering,” as her hand slides down, and then slides in, “ _ever_ since the first time I saw it—”

“Ka—ah, Karisawa-san—!”

“Sweet little Anri-chan!” Erika coos back. 

Anri’s knees draw helplessly in, her feet flat against the mattress until Erika jerks her fingers at a particularly vigorous angle, and then her left foot jackknifes up from the mattress of its own accord. Her toes curl against nothing; her calf presses against Erika’s waist. She feels too weak to do anything but laugh, and even that comes out breathless, wheezing out of her already winded. 

“I don’t know where you could have hidden it,” continues Erika, though her own voice is starting to grow strained as well. She straddles Anri’s thigh and presses back hard against it. “Not unless you’ve got a whole little reality-warping pocket dimension tucked away up here, which I’m definitely not ruling out—” 

Her wrist twists at an angle that’s not comfortable for either of them, from the sound she lets out, but it works anyway: Anri seizes in a breath, and holds it in for long enough she’s nearly giddy by the time she remembers to let it out again. She’s giddy enough, anyway, that she dares to pull Erika down and dares to kiss her. Erika wipes her hand on her own hip and kisses back. 

Her movements are harder, erratically reckless. She says something – what it means, Anri’s not exactly sure, but it’s got a nice alliterative ring to it, and probably wouldn’t sound out of place cried out in a Saturday morning shounen, which Anri sort of suspects might be exactly where it’s from – and then, after a moment, Erika relaxes. 

Her braids are still secure, but a staticky dark halo rings her head where they’ve begun to fray. The liquidly shifting city lights shine through it: she’s cold blue, she’s neon ultraviolet, she’s sickly sodium yellow. She rests her head on Anri’s chest and sighs in weary satisfaction. 

“I always dreamed of one day meeting a pair of breasts pneumatic enough I could use them for a pillow, but in general they’re always so much more disappointingly un-cushiony in the 3D world, and if I’m honest a part of me’s always disappointed at the lack of sound effects when you—” She prods. Anri yelps. “Hm,” says Erika, and rubs her head contentedly into place. “But not you, Anri-chan. You’re like my very own life-size body pillow.”

“Isn’t that... just a person, Karisawa-san?”

“Nothing like it, Anri-chan,” says Erika, in a tone of fond condescension. “The measurements are all off, for a start, and no one ever looks as cute in cat ears and ribbons as they do in animation. And once you leave genre works behind and stray into the realms of realism, or ‘reality’—” she lifts one hand, lazily, to scratch quotes into the air, “—then gravity’s _forever_ making a nuisance of itself... But let’s talk about this later, okay? I’ll need my rest for when Yumacchi’s call comes in.”

Anri nods, though Erika can’t see it. It doesn’t seem quite enough. Tentatively, she touches one of Erika’s unravelling braids. Erika doesn’t complain. Her hair is thick, coarser than Anri’s. Anri’s hand relaxes into place. She’ll have to ask her to move, sooner or later – there’s no way Anri can sleep like this, Erika’s head a heavy weight on her ribs – but not yet, maybe.

The blinds are bumping slowly, loosely against each other. The plastic links connecting them rattle as they move. Neither of them speaks; but however many floors up they are, however late the hour, the roar of Ikebukuro is as constant as the tide in a shell held against the ear. 

Anri’s beginning to think that Erika must have fallen asleep by the time she stirs again. “Well – you’re here now, Anri-chan,” she says. Her voice is calm, and oddly faraway. “You can stay here till Dotachin’s out the hospital, if you like. Or till I get that call. And you can still stay here then, if you like, but you can’t come with me. It’s better without witnesses. For us, I mean – it’s better if we’re the only ones who know what, and where, and who, and how long it took, and what we used and where we left him... And better for you, too. Even Dotachin won’t know. So you can stay here, and not worry about it.” 

Anri’s not sure what to say, so she says nothing. She moves her palm across Erika’s hair, but it feels awkward. Maybe it’d feel less awkward if her hair was loose. Maybe it wouldn’t. Erika’s talking about murder: Anri tries the thought on for size, gazing up at the shadowy ceiling. Murder, and maybe other things as well – the Dollars forums are always alive with rumour, about Erika and Walker both, and murder seems like it might just be the least of what they do. 

But that’s okay. Saika likes to hurt people too, and Saika is Anri, or perhaps Anri is Saika: either way, Anri’s comfortable here, Erika’s fingers tapping thoughtfully at her hip. She’d be a hypocrite if she wasn’t. The only thing she’s a little uneasy about is the fact she doesn’t feel more uneasy – but Erika is her friend, and it’s Anri who’s the monster. 

She takes off her glasses, and folds them, and reaches up to set them on the windowsill beside her phone. The room is nothing but shades of smudged black, but the pinprick light of her phone is flashing as it keeps on charging. There’ll be a call tonight, she’s sure of it. For everyone’s sake, but most of all for Erika’s: there needs to be a call tonight.


End file.
